


how do you measure a year?

by SympatriCuckoo



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Deepthroating, Emetophilia, Face-Fucking, Forced Vomiting, Future Major Character Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, Violence, drabble chapters, future body modification, future corruption, future forced drug use, future forced pregnancy, future mind break, future objectification, future sex slavery, future sex trafficking, just future horribleness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SympatriCuckoo/pseuds/SympatriCuckoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Day 0: Targets acquired (see ‘mission debriefing’ and 'requisition orders’ for further logistical information).</em><br/>Edit: fixed the chapters so that the missing day is there now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> been tossing this around for a while. might as well post before i lose all courage.
> 
> title taken from seasons of love from RENT.
> 
> warnings: drabble chapter; violence; kidnapping; all future chapters will also be drabbles; future horribleness.

_Day 0: Targets acquired (see ‘mission debriefing’ and 'requisition orders’ for further logistical information)._

 

With a sickening crunch Sans goes down first, toppling face-first to the ground. His ambusher advances brandishing a cudgel.

 

Papyrus turns, alarm and surprise quickly hardening into wary resolve. Panicked questions clamor for his attention: Why are they being attacked? Should he try to reason with them? But racing through his mind over and over is 'They hurt Sans.’ and 'Will Sans be okay?’ rising above the other milling thoughts.

 

Running on protective terror and instinct, he summons his bones and sends them flying, pinning the human to the wall as they pierce through clothes and embed deeply into brick.

 

With one eye trained on the human, he rushes over and bends to check on Sans.

 

Other than swelling to the back of his skull and being clubbed unconscious, Sans doesn’t look harmed. Papyrus will not know with any certainty that there are  no other injuries until they reach a healer, but he’s relieved that, at the very least, his brother is still alive.

 

He’s debating aloud whether or not to move Sans, if it’s even safe to move him, and what should he even do with their attacker anyway? when the human starts to move, tearing his arms away and leaving giant chunks of fabric stuck to the wall.

 

“NOW, HUMAN-”

 

Something heavy crashes into the back of his skull. Pain radiates from the blow and red-streaked darkness flashes across his vision, pulsating along with the throbbing in his head.

 

He slumps over Sans, curling over him. His limbs feel heavy, like there’s a great waterlogged sweater weighing him down. He wants to get up, tries to get up, but unconsciousness wraps around his body like a cloak.

 

Shouts of protest ebb to swirling incoherence as he’s picked up and separated from Sans.

 

Then he’s dragged under.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  _Day 1: Report sent RE: Acquisitions and due to receive sum in part to the amount of $20,000._

_Set perimeter as per specs._

_Acquisitions still unconscious but MD assures no lasting damage to goods._

 

Familiar hands brush over his skull.

 

Papyrus snuggles into Sans' lap, burying his pounding head into Sans' stomach. It's cold and he feels somewhat nauseous, but it's comforting just being near his brother. He can feel himself being lulled back to sleep and, while it's lazy, he doesn't fight it even as he feels as though he's forgetting something. Something important.

 

Unbidden, fragments of memory return. A human. Sans on the ground. Pain.

 

His eyes fly open.

 

Sans smiles down at him.

 

“SANS, ARE ALRIGHT?” He sits up, fighting down a wave of nausea, to peer at Sans' head.

 

“I'll live.” Sans inclines his head, agreeably allowing Papyrus to fuss. Where Sans had been hit is a large goose egg, and he hisses when Papyrus gently prods at it.

 

Papyrus retracts his hand, guiltily. “SORRY.”

 

“S'okay.”

 

It's not okay. He's just caused his brother further pain! Papyrus focuses on his magic, shifting the wavelength and shortening it until his orange soul pulses with green. He's no healer by any means and as he channels the magic into his hands he can feel it jumping around, trying to shift back to its normal emanations.

 

“Paps-”

 

“SHH!”

 

He calls on memories of being sent to the school healer, how the magic was gentle and calm, steady and even, and he gentles his magic to the best of his ability until he feels it's a reasonable enough facsimile. Magic suffuses his being and he lays his hands on Sans' injury.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Papyrus pulls back and frowns down at his hands.

 

“Bro, it's not use.” There's a pessimistic cast to Sans' smile. “Our magic won't work here.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Day 2: Perimeter systems normal._

_Acquisitions conscious and mobile._

_Some display of paraphysical abilities (ie: “glowing”) reported._

_Preparing to test functioning and attributes._

_MD to administer lead suppressant prior to testing to suspend paraphysical abilities to dormancy while still allowing measurements._

 

The humans take Sans first, manacling him and ignoring their questions.

 

Sans acquiesces and goes without a struggle, but Papyrus demands and begs that they take him too. His pleas are summarily ignored, and when he tries to follow, to rush out after them before the doors closes, he's pushed back at the last second.

 

Papyrus falls to the floor. From where he's lying, the human that pushed him looks horribly large: bulky and menacing under the odd suit it's wearing. It's hand moves to its pocket, reaching inside. The other human is tense, frozen halfway out the door.

 

Papyrus clambers to his feet, intent to try again. All he want to do is accompany Sans! That's not so bad. Surely, the human would understand that he's only worried about his brother! The guard pulls out an odd-looking gun and aims it at Papyrus who freezes in a crouched position, half-way to his feet.

 

“Paps.” The humans flinch as one when Sans speaks. “It's okay.” Even as his guard lessens, the human keeps its gun trained on Papyrus.

 

“BUT-”

 

“Paps, bro. I'll be fine.” Sans smiles convincingly. “I promise.”

 

_Day 2: 1317_

 

_Results in of item **REDACTED**  indicate acquisition is of little value in and of itself._

 

Flanked by a human in front and behind, Papyrus is lead through the narrow corridors, feeling lost and alone without Sans. With every step, the manacles around his ankles and wrists jingle and the thick metal cuffs on his wrists chafe against the injection site in his cartilage.

 

For the second time in two days, Papyrus feels ill. Whatever it was that he was injected with makes his stomach roil and his soul feel dim. But more than those physical complaints, Papyrus feels sick with worry.

 

“IS SANS ALRIGHT?”

 

The humans don't respond.

 

“HE'S MY BROTHER. THE SHORTER SKELETON,” Papyrus explains, hoping that the silence was due to confusion and that with more information the humans would answer.

 

No such luck.

 

The longer the silence continues, the more Papyrus is left with his thoughts. He's not usually one given towards rumination, that's more Sans' area. But the humans had shown no compunction about resorting to violence, and while Sans is resourceful and a more than capable fighter, that was with his magic at his disposal. Here stripped of magic and with only 1HP...

 

Papyrus stops that train of thought, refocusing on what Sans said earlier. _“Paps, bro. I'll be fine. I promise.”_

 

Sans rarely made promises. If Sans didn't believe he could guarantee something, he never promised. But if he made one, he always kept it. So if he **promised** to be fine, that **must** mean that he **will** be fine. He'll be **fine** . He **promised**.

 

Papyrus focuses on those remembered words, replaying them in his head.

 

 _Paps_ . A deep breath. _Bro._ A step. _I'll_. Another step.

 

 _Be fine._ They round a corner.

 

 _I_ step _promise_ step.

 

The words become like the lyrics to a song, the clinking of the cuffs and chains like music and their footfalls like a beat. It's enough to keep the anxiety at bay, to redirect attention away from the disturbing sensations in his soul.

 

Papyrus is almost eerily docile as the doctor completes all examinations.

 

_Day 2: 2042_

 

_Results in of item **REDACTED**  indicate acquisition has all necessary attributes as well as a favorable temperament. Shall proceed with next phase of operation._

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to get to the fucking? WHY can't I get to the fucking?
> 
> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

_Day 3: Initiating Phase 1_

_Establishing new use for acquisition **REDACTED**._

_Use of object-relations to overcome defenses._

 

Papyrus is exhausted. That's nothing new; when he'd first started training with Undyne, he'd often come home just about ready to collapse-body fatigued and joints stiff with cold and aching from over-use.

 

His type of exhaustion-from fear and invasive tests-is more mental and emotional than physical. It makes the walk back to cell feel like a dream, like his body is running on autopilot without any real direction from his brain.

 

The walk back seems shorter, and when they arrive outside the door Papyrus walks in without any hesitation, without even asking for the manacles to be removed. Escape doesn't cross his tired mind.

 

Sans isn't here.

 

He scans the bare room then sinks down against a wall.

 

He hopes Sans will be back soon.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

  _Day 4: Phase 1 underway._

 

Sans still isn't back yet and Papyrus is going made with worry.

 

He's already examined the entirety of the cell, has paced it clock-wise and counter-clock-wise.

 

Has banged on the door and called for someone, anyone to tell him about Sans.

 

Nobody came.

 

Papyrus stares at his scarf before resting his head on his knees and hugging the red fabric to his chest.

 

He hopes Sans is okay.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH! I POSTED IT ON MY TUMBLR BUT FORGOT TO POST THIS HERE LAST NIGHT!!! D:
> 
> warnings: STEREOTYPY AND SELF HARM; SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

  _Day 5: Acquisition **REDACTED** lies on back staring at ceiling of SHU._

 

Time passes oddly. With no windows, no clocks and no meals, it's hard to mark the passage of time.

 

Papyrus had fretted about Sans; had tried to first open the door, then break it down; had shouted and pleaded and cried for anyone, monster or human, just so that there would be someone there other than himself.

 

Now he stares unblinking at the bright artificial lights – has been staring at them for hours. On 24 hours a day, it's ironic that they're the only thing that changes in his cell, albeit subtly. It took time for Papyrus to realize there was something entertaining inside with him, but then, time is all he has.

 

The diamond pattern on the fluorescent light thickens and dances, until they resemble black waves that undulate to the electrical hum. Odd black spots form and dissolve, like drops of ink in water.; their presence is random, and he's long since learned that trying to predict where they'll form is useless. He passively observes.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: SELF HARM; SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
> 
> keep forgetting to post here. :O

 

_Day 6: Phase 1 proceeds as normal._

 

Papyrus wakes with a groan and a headache and far too much energy, and immediately wishes he was still asleep.

 

He tries to sleep, closing his eyes and evening his breathing, trying to relax, but already he's too ramped up. He can feel his magic coiling tightly inside of his body, restless with no outlet. But what can he do? He can't spar or cook, his usual methods for dealing with magical buildup, not with whatever it is that's keeping a tight lid on the expression of his magic.

 

Papyrus rolls over onto his side.

 

Huh, that was actually pretty interesting.

 

He rolls over again. The floor is hard and cold like usual, but somehow it feels different as he rolls, less firm and more forgiving as though it's molding itself to his shape. As he stops, lying on one arm, his other arm flops over his side like an overcooked noodle. The smile on his face is small and feels awkward, but it grows as he rolls over and over on the floor, his flailing becoming more exaggerated each time.

 

The cell only has enough space to allow for a few rolls in either direction, and at the end of each set his arm hits the wall, hard. Papyrus stops only when his spine is numb from the cold and from rubbing against the floor, and when his arms are covered in painful marks.

 

He sits up properly and stares, fascinated, as orange magic pools under the outermost layer of bone. He counts them, traces the bruises with a finger.

 

His magic is no longer as restless.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I went and fucked up the chapter order. Uhduh.
> 
> warnings: DEPRESSIVE AND OBSESSIVE RUMINATIONS; NEGATIVE AFFECT; SELF HARM; SOLITARY CONFINEMENT;

_Day 7: Phase 1 continues._

 

Papyrus wakes up, weary to his soul despite how physically energetic he feels. Again, he has a headache, but he's since grown used to it.

 

He wishes he were back home. Right about now, he'd be making his bed then getting dressed.

 

One of his favorite things about being above-ground is the variety of fashions, and so many of them with skeleton themes! He can just imagine what clothes he'd choose, something light and easy to move in for cooking, because he'd never trust Sans around a kitchen. Not after that horrible quiche debacle.

 

Sans...

 

Papyrus jolts with guilty surprise.

 

He hadn't been thinking about Sans; hadn't been worrying about him or anything. Somehow his brother, his closest person, had completely slipped his mind.

 

Papyrus castigates himself for his selfishness. There's absolutely no reason for such thoughtlessness! There's nothing else that could possibly divert his attention, nothing else to _do_ , but he'd become too wrapped up in his own problems to even spare a thought about Sans whom he hadn't heard from for _days_.

 

He's such a terrible, terrible brother.

 

The thought doesn't leave no matter what he does to try to refocus his mind to other more pleasant things; no matter that he tries to reason his way out of it. It stays and festers, and Papyrus' mood grows worse.

 

He had never thought himself to be so horrible. But then, perhaps that's the reason why no one wants to be around him. After all, even among other monsters he's never had many friends. Perhaps they had seen what he hadn't.

 

Perhaps Sans had left him here. After all, he had said that he'd be fine, but maybe he meant that he'd be fine leaving, that he'd be fine without Papyrus.

 

Perhaps that's the reason why he's here in this place alone.

 

Papyrus curls up on the floor, hugging himself for comfort, gripping his arms. Pain lurches through his body as he presses down on his bruises, and he presses down harder.

 

He deserves all of this.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: INSOMNIA; DEPRESSIVE AND OBSESSIVE RUMINATIONS; NEGATIVE AFFECT; SELF HARM; SOLITARY CONFINEMENT;

_Day 8: Phase 1 continues._

_Acquisition **REDACTED** **REDACTED** **REDACTED**  to **REDACTED**._

_Acquisition **REDACTED** **REDACTED** to be **REDACTED** from **REDACTED**._

 

 

Arms trapped between the floor and his body, his bruises smart as he rolls over.

 

No matter how hard he tries he can't sleep. He wishes that he has a pillow to punch in frustration. Or a mattress to sleep on. A blanket would be nice as well; he could hide under it and try to block out some of the light.

 

Sure the light's nice to look at, but right now he wants to be unconscious. Things are easier to deal with when he's sleeping; at the very least, he can pretend that this reality doesn't exist.

 

Maybe he could sleep if he pretended he was lying on the floor of his bedroom?

 

Papyrus rolls over again, pillowing his head in his arms and resting his cheek on the floor. Like this, he's cradled in a little patch of shadow and it's easier to relax.

 

The floor is hard and cold, but it's easy to imagine that he's lying on the hardwood floor of his above-ground bedroom. His headache is due to trying to solve a hard puzzle, not because of too much sleep and utter boredom. And it's one of those rare days off when he doesn't have anything else to do and he can just relax by himself. 

 

He keeps still, pretending to be Papyrus sleeping and as he falls into the role he relaxes. The negative thoughts hush and the anxiety he's been feeling is washed away. His arms throb as he rests his forehead against them. The pain is oddly soothing, giving him something else on which to focus, and its constant throb is enough to lull him into a stupor.

 

The sudden voice shocks him badly. As unused to social interactions as he's become in the past few days, to have someone else talking to him almost sends him into a panic attack.

 

“Howdy, Papyrus!”

 

Seemingly having sprouted out of the concrete floor, Flowey stands before him, a large grin on his face.

 

“F-Flowey?” 

 

“I bet you're surprised to see little old me,” Flowey comments with a wink and a smirk. Papyrus feels like he's being mocked, only he can't figure out why Flowey would do that. “But I wouldn't just abandon you! Not when  _ I'm _ your  _ only friend _ .”

 

“What?” ' _ only friend' _ ? Papyrus' question about how Flowey got in here dies on his lips. 

 

Flowey adopts an expression of feigned surprise. “Well of course! You didn't seriously think Sans cares about you, did you? And really, other than Sans, who else do you have?”

 

Actually, he had thought- _ still thinks _ Sans cares for him. Sans is his brother and he's Sans' brother. How many times had Sans said that Papyrus is his reason for living? Too many times to count. So this-what Flowey said  _ can't _ be true.

 

“Oh...” Flowey looks to the side, eyebrows arched. For a moment he's uncertain, but he continues with almost sadistic resolve, “You know, the smiley trashbag's been relaxing and doing fun science while you've been locked up in here.”

 

The despair that he'd felt earlier returns, a weight dragging down his soul, as his thoughts and emotions muddle together into an incoherent mess. He deserves this. Sans doesn't love him. He caused it. “....that's not true,” Papyrus mutters to himself. “....that's not true, that's not true,that's not true that's not true” that's not true it can't be true sans would never do that-

 

“Well, don't take _my_ word for it.” Flowey undulates his stem in a shrug. “You can ask him yourself, he's right outside the door.”

 

Papyrus looks up, tears in his eyes. He wills the door not to open. Please, please don't let it open. If Flowey is right about this, then what does that mean for everything else he's said? He doesn’t want it to be true. He doesn’t want there to be even a possibility that what he’s said could be true. 

 

He feels lost at sea, alone and surrounded on all sides by water with nothing else in sight. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PANIC ATTACK; SELF HARM; SOME AFTER-EFFECTS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT;

_Day 9: Acquisitions collected._

_125 mg thiopental requisitioned.  
_

Against all of Papyrus' hopes, the door opens.

 

Flanked by two humans, Sans stands in the threshold looking tired and disheveled. He blinks rapidly, squinting, as his eyes get used to the light. And once he does, when he sees Papyrus, the grimace on his face morphs into a smile which stays on his face even as he's roughly pushed into the cell.

 

Papyrus feels an odd sense of unreality, as though what's unfolding can't possibly be real.

 

The door slams shut behind him.

 

“Papyrus! You're alright!”

 

The embrace is familiar, but what should be a comforting weight instead feels suffocating. Papyrus pushes out of his arms and shuffles backwards, putting more space between them.

 

Sans looks hurt. “Paps, what-”

 

“Sans, please. I need to ask you a question.” Papyrus clutches his arms, fingers digging deeply into bruises, the pain anchoring him.

 

“Sure.” Sans eyes follow the movements, and his eyes narrow at the marks on Papyrus' forearms.

 

“Did...what...when....” The words stick in his mouth. _Is Flowey right_? That's the question he want to ask, but it's so hard to put into words that Sans would understand, words that wouldn't cause Sans to ask a million questions, derailing his own.

 

And yet, he wouldn't mind being derailed. He doesn't want to know the answer; doesn't want to think that Flowey could be right in everything; doesn't want to think that Sans doesn't care.

 

That nobody cares. That Flowey is his only friend.

 

The thought hurts and he can feel himself tearing up. Sans is starting to look alarmed and Papyrus is about to give into cowardice and forgo the question, but over Sans' shoulder he can see Flowey.

 

Disappointment washes over him.

 

Shoring up his nerves and gathering his courage, he asks, “What-what did you do...while you were gone?”

 

What looks like relief spreads over Sans' face. “Nothing much. They didn't hurt me or anything? Mainly just had me doing science stuff-”

 

Sans mouth is moving but he can't hear it. Everything is being drowned in buzzing white noise.

  
That's two. Two for three that Flowey's been right on. Might as well go for broke.

 

It's so hard to breath, like the air is saturated with water.

 

Dimly, he's aware of hands on his shoulders, of Sans panicking – and isn't that funny? That Sans is panicked over panic – but it's too much all too much

 

Bones hit wall with a clatter that Papyrus doesn't even feel. He slides down the wall, crumpling at the base, and he clutches his chest and the floor as though anchoring himself. Gasps like a landed fish. “don't...can't

 

…..not....

 

near...”

 

Distantly, he hears shouting but about whom or about what he can't understand. He's grabbed and he tries weakly to free himself to no avail. They coil around, piercing, dragging him in their wake like a tide.

 

It's a relief to finally fall asleep.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: PANIC ATTACK; THREATS; SOME AFTER-EFFECTS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT;
> 
> shits gonna get real

_Day 10: Acquisition **REDACTED** hospitalized._

_Acquisition **REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED**._

 

His entire head aches from his sinuses to his cranium down to his cervical vertebrae. It's like his head is being crushed, slowly but surely, under someone's foot.

 

The air smells sterile like antiseptic, latex and ion filters, with just a hint of stale sweat and feces. In his current state, it's unbearable. Pain and nausea rush through him, so mixed that it's impossible to identify them as separate sensations.

 

Papyrus burrows into his bed, wrapping the blankets around him and stuffing his head under the pillow. It's nice and dark there – cool – and it smells more like life.

 

What had he been doing? Had Undyne suplexed him through a boulder or something?

 

A hand shakes him and Papyrus wearily untangles himself from his comforting cocoon. He expects to see Sans, worried and relieved in equal measures and perhaps either ready with puns or with a discourse on why Papyrus should take it easy and not join the Royal Guard. Its a song and dance in which Papyrus is well versed and which he's ready to face with some good-natured exasperation, and annoyance.

 

It's not Sans.

 

The human is small, about Sans' size, and it's wearing a lab coat, also around Sans' size, but that's where the similarities end. It's eyes are dark and beady, almost detached, which scares Papyrus. He wonders what has to be done to make someone look so numb.

 

“WHERE AM I WHAT HAPPENED?”

 

The human digs out a recorder and fiddles with it. “Subject capable of speech; expresses confusion on past events leading up to hospitalization.” Even though the human is staring at Papyrus, the words are addressed to the machine.

 

“UM...YES. THAT'S RIGHT. COULD YOU TELL ME? WHAT HAPPENED?”

 

The human stares as though weighing options. “You had a panic attack and had to be sedated,” it finally says. Still it stares as though interested in his reaction, as though testing a hypothesis.

 

“REALLY?” That sounded out of character. “GOSH. WHAT CAUSED IT?”

 

The human shrugs. “The precipitating incident included your brother.”

 

“SANS?” Really? Sans caused a panic attack? That sounded _really_ out of character.

 

And yet, the more he thought about it, the more the memories came trickling in. First flashes of emotion: fear, boredom, despair. Then recollections of events: a door opening, human attackers, a long walk to meet this same doctor. It's nothing but fear and hopelessness; he's drowning in it, overwhelmed and powerless until he's blown-out like an overworked circuit.

 

He's gasping for breath again. Distantly he realizes that he's hyperventilating and that he should calm down, take deep breaths to get enough oxygen. But he's not in the driver's seat right now; he's out of control and his body is shaking apart.

 

When the panic attack ends he's trembling, curled into himself, reassures himself that at least it as a minor one, at least compared to the last one. It doesn't bring much comfort.

 

When he looks up, he sees that the human's been waiting patiently, almost politely, but its eyes are bright with an interest that makes him uncomfortable.

 

“The other skeleton...your brother. He's very weak.”

 

“Sans only has 1HP,” Papyrus explains, confused. Why is Sans' health important to this conversation?

 

“Is that what you call it?” Papyrus opens his mouth to explain but the human waves it off. “Nevertheless, it is weak – too weak. But you. You're just what we've been looking for.”

 

Between the unease and the nausea, Papyrus feels like retching. That he doesn't have the magic to spare is a minor blessing.

 

 

“We have a proposition,” the human states. “You can do what we tell you to, or your brother dies.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: THREATS; SOME AFTER-EFFECTS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT; TOUGH CHOICES;
> 
> Still sfw. How???

_Day 11: Acquisition left to “decide”._

 

He’s been left alone to decide as the case may be. Either he consents and Sans will be spared; or he refuses, Sans is killed and he’s forced anyway. Those are his options.

 

“It’s not really a choice,” he points out, dully.

 

Flowey tuts, shaking his head in mock sadness. “Oh, Papyrus. There’s always a choice.”

 

“Death or obedience? No, that’s _not_ a choice!” he says, incredulously. His path is clear for him.

 

“Of course it is!” Flowey is upset. “Either you _submit_ to what these _humans_ have in store-” the word human is spit with loathing and spite , “or you save your pride and pay back that worthless brother for your pain. Honestly,” Flowey continues with faux-gentility, “it’s a no-brainer on my part.”

 

“And you would have me sacrifice _my brother_ for the sake of _arrogance_ ,” he spits, suddenly furious with the other monster. But, the angers leaves as quickly as it came. He feels tired all of a sudden. “That’s no way to live.”

 

“What has he ever done but hold you back?” All gentility, fake or otherwise is gone. There’s only pain and poison. “Take that sibling love and stuff it. It’ll only ever bring you suffering.”

 

“No.” He won’t budge on this.

 

“He left you in pure solitary confinement for how many days? While he was off having fun doing science?” Honey dews off his words, sickly sweet and venomous.

 

Papyrus stares upwards at the ceiling. Flowey’s words hurt, hurt all the more for the truth in them. “He’s my brother.” There’s a note of finality to his words; the decision has already been made.

 

Flowey knows his choice and sneers. “Love, Mercy and Compassion,” he spits. “You’re going to be ground to _dust_ because of how _weak_ you are. You’re going to be left with nothing, not even dignity – going to _be nothing_.”

 

“Or give up all hope and throw everything of worth away but my own egotism?” he shakes his head, turns away. “The day I do that is the day I’ll die.”

 

“Your funeral,” Flowey scoffs before he’s gone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: FINALLY GODDAMNED NSFW CONTENT; FORCED FROTTAGE; FORCED STRIPPING; TOUGH CHOICES; SOME AFTER-EFFECTS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

_Day 12: First liaison._

 

The walk is long, seemingly at the other end of the compound. Fear makes him jittery, makes him stumble over his own feet as he fights against his body’s instinct to run. It gives him a lot of time to think, to brood, to dread.

 

What could they want him to do? Gruesome imaginings, gleaned from human comics and anime, occupy his mind. Would he be dissected out of morbid scientific knowledge? That seemed right up the human doctor’s alley. Or would he be made to fight in some sort of gladiatorial challenge? That seemed to fit the violent nature of the human guards.

 

But, the room he’s escorted to is much the same as his own cell, only better furnished with a window and a bed. It rather anti-climatic, and Papyrus relaxes. Maybe…maybe all they wanted was to talk? Maybe interview a monster and try to suss out their intentions? From all the human history he’s watched with Undyne and Alphys, most humans are either scared and skeptical of non-humans, or else really welcoming, so maybe these humans just fall into the first group? Yes, that has to be it! Why else would he be here?

 

Papyrus stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for his interviewer to arrive. His gaze rests on the window. Is-is he allowed to look outside? No one said anything about not looking outside…

 

With a shrug, he walks to the window. It’s bright out, the sky a blue so intense it hurts. He has to look away. He blinks, tries to rub away the black spots. Even with his eyes closed, he can still see the shapes of bunkers and cacti, yellowish-brown silhouettes against the darkness.

 

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he jumps in surprise.

 

There’s another human in front of him, older than most others he’s seen, excepting perhaps the doctor.

 

“So you’re the skeleton?”

 

It’s the first time that a human here has addressed him directly in such a natural way. It’s refreshing but intimidating, and he stammers when answering. “A-ah, yes! My name is Papyrus! What’s your name?”

 

The human looks bewildered. “Do you even know what you’re doing here?”

 

But of course! “I am here to answer any and all of your questions regarding monsters,” he states, matter-of-factly.

 

The human stares before chuckling. “We already know about you monsters. Or at least everything worth knowing. You’re here to provide another type of service, and in exchange we promise you one thing. Know what that one thing is?”

 

“To-to not kill Sans?”

 

“Right.” The human crowds in close, pins both of Papyrus’ shoulders to the wall. “Know what the price for that is?”

 

Alarm bells start to go off in Papyrus’ head – this does not feel safe. “…my obedience,” he eventually answers, because in the end this is his decision, this is how Sans will be safe.

 

“Good, good.” The human’s hand traces up the side of his neck and tilts his head back so that he’s forced to meet its gaze. “Strip.”

 

He wiggles, trying to move out of the human’s arms, to try to get some room to maneuver. He stares pleadingly up, but the human just smirks. It seems to be enjoying this.

 

He undresses, trying to preserve as much modesty as possible, but his movements push his body intimately against the human’s so that his rib cage pushes against the human’s chest, his legs brush against inner thighs, and in the end his modesty’s not so much saved as sexualized.

 

The human pushes against him, grinding its pelvis against his. The bulge in its pants makes him want to retch. Mortified and ashamed, he tries to avoid the human’s eyes, to look down, but the fingers under his chin grip his jaw and force his gaze upwards.

 

The human’s breath fans heavily across his face.

 

“Please, don’t,” he whispers, before clamping his mouth shut afraid of reprisal for disobedience. He’s not even sure what he’s referring to. The forced eye contact? The act itself? All he knows is that this – he doesn’t want this; it makes his soul shiver in revulsion. He wants nothing more than to refuse, to escape and never look back, but if it means keeping Sans safe…

 

“Beg for me to stop,” he human breathes.

 

Papyrus doesn’t hesitate. He begs, tears in his eyes, “Please, please, stop. I don’t want this. I don’t-I’m scared. Don’t hurt Sans. I don’t want this – I’ll do it but I don’t want to. Please don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt me. I don’t-don’t-d-don’t…” He trails off, crying. Sobs rack his body, but he fights to keep his eyes trained on the human.

 

The human frots against him more urgently before stilling.

 

He recoils, trying to back further into the wall. On the one hand, it had just used him to…ejaculate. On the other, at least this means that it’s done? He can leave?

 

The hope must show on his face because the human grins down at him before dragging him to the bed. “Ha! You think you’re done? Believe me, I didn’t pay for some dry humping. I paid to be the first to sample the new goods and I haven’t even started the main course.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: RAPE; DISSOCIATION; SOME AFTER-EFFECTS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT
> 
> ’m sorry for the wait. It’s been hectic, and then I had to rewrite a few times because of incoherent writing. Still not happy, but at least things are properly set up….? I hope….
> 
> ALSO: stuff happening in real life. will update as much as i can, also drabbles but might not be everyday because i do need to sleep and goddamn but wish i didn’t have to.

_Day 12:_

He’s pressed down, trapped between the mattress and the human. He quivers, caught between the instinctive urge to struggle free and the need to need to stay still, to be obedient. Its hands, eager and grasping, roam over his body, stroking over bone.

 

The touch is revolting, and involuntarily he lets out a little whimper of distress.

 

“Oh? You want more?”

 

No! Papyrus doesn’t know how to respond, if he’s still allowed to protest or if he’s expected to answer affirmatively; doesn’t want to get it wrong; doesn’t want his protests to fuel the human’s lust and doesn’t want to consent to his own rape. In the end, he says nothing, turning his head away and closing his eyes, trying to pretend that this isn’t really happening to him.

 

“Playing coy, eh?” Its fingers drag down his spine, stroke over the flare of his hips. “Go right ahead. I want _all_ of your innocence.” The human spends seems fascinated with his pelvic girdle, fingering the hollows between bones, the empty spaces that he’s only ever explored himself.

 

He can feel his face flame orange with embarrassment and more tears. It feels different, the sensations stronger than when he does it himself. It’s awful and sleazy but his body reacts its touch, hips twitching into the caresses. He grits his teeth, refusing to give voice to the unwanted pleasure.

 

Slowly, deliberately, it thumbs his pubic symphysis, and he can’t help but gasp, spine arching off the bed. It seems to savor his reactions, smile widening as it rubs against the cartilage, harder and harder until its grinding its finger into the joint, and he thrashes wildly as what feels like lightening and burning race through his body, rebounding and amplifying. He hates this: hates what he’s being made to feel, open and empty and overwhelmed. And he’s desperate for this to end, please just let this end.

 

It stops, and he’s both frustrated and relieved, aroused and humiliated. He turns his head away, looking away from the human’s grin, trying to disavow what he knows is there. But still he can feel. Can feel wetness seeping down from his fully manifested vagina, coating the top insides of his femurs with slick sticky lubrication, can feel his magic flowing down to maintain his conjured genitals, can feel them pulsing in time with his soul.

 

He doesn’t – shouldn’t – want to want this. But here he is, body responding, eagerly participating in his own rape. Perversely, he wishes that the human was violent, taking what it wants without concern so that he wouldn’t be aroused.

 

The mattress dips, moving underneath him as the human pulls back and unbuttons and unzips its pants. There’s a soft smacking of skin on skin before it shuffles back between his legs.

 

Papyrus closes his eyes. This is for Sans, he says to himself. For Sans.

 

His legs are parted further and his hips angled up, propped against the human’s thighs. He pictures Sans’ smiling face, feels the human prodding, rubbing itself against his folds. There’s a pinch, then a sensation of something slight giving. The penetration is slow, a driving pressure rather than a brutal thrust. It gives him time to adjust, but also to feel the stretch and every inch of the human’s lust that he’s forced to accommodate.

 

Even this is arousing and that fact makes him want to hide in shame, to go away like he had during the period of isolation. He recalls the feeling of muffled blankness, of being submerged where thoughts fade in and out only half-understood and nothing can hurt because nothing can reach.

 

It feels simultaneously like it’s happening to him and not to him, as though his consciousness is gradually floating a few feet outside but still tethered to his body. He can still feel; the pace the human sets is slow, rocking into his body with long, full thrusts that send pleasure sparking through him, but at the same time it’s oddly numbed, like the tether only transmits a part of the sensations, not the whole.

 

He’s grateful for this as time moves sluggishly, because he’d hate to be feeling this in its entirety. It’s an interminable wait, and he constructs conversations in his head, plans outings with Sans. Imagines a time after all of this where this is behind him and he never has to think of it again.

 

His body spasms and twitches as a sudden wave of pleasure washes over him. He suffers through it, detached and adrift in his own consciousness even as the human takes his orgasm, riding his body and using it for its own pleasure.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: DISSOCIATION; AFTER-EFFECTS OF RAPE
> 
> Work started today. Have this chapter I wrote on the sly.

_Day 12:_

 

He’s given one bar of soap, a wash cloth and a towel.

 

The shower he’s brought to is spartan and clearly designed for serving multiple people at once. It’s empty now and he finds he’s glad for that fact as he’s ushered to a curtain-less stall.

 

The ground is fairly filthy with ground in dirt and…other unidentified substances. Whether by design or by accident, he hasn’t been given any sandals, and he eyes the floor as he undresses.

 

As a skeleton, there’s not much call for showering. The most he usually needs to wash off is spaghetti stains, which are easily taken care of with some hydrogen peroxide and a cloth. When he showers, it’s mainly for comfort, for thinking or to relax.

 

This is the first time he’s showered to get clean.

 

He stands unmoving under the shower, facing the spray. His mind is blank and he just feels the water pelting him like little pebbles. It’d be soothing if he didn’t still feel a bit like he’s outside of his body. There’s an odd sense of unreality: it physically feels like it usually does when he showers, but there’s a sort of feedback, like he’s 50% Papyrus showering and 50% not there at all and the entire experience has a weird vibration to it, like he’s experiencing everything twice.

 

The guards stand outside the stall, watching him. He wishes (there was a mirror just to see if he looks as odd as he feels) they would leave and give him some privacy.

 

Looking at his hands washing his body, such a simple action and yet it feels momentous, he feels (glad there’s no mirror) completely in control. With the odd sense of double reality, he feels like he’s in control of himself being made to do what he wants.

 

He wants to stand there forever, just (washing himself over and over until the bar is used up) feeling. But the guard orders him to stop, eventually yanks him out of the stall cursing as it gets wet.

 

He’s given new clothes after he towels himself off and watches (miserably) apathetically as his battle body is taken away.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: DISSOCIATION; AFTER-EFFECTS OF RAPE; SIBLING ARGUMENT

_Day 12:_

 

He's shown back to his cell. He knows that he should be paying attention to the route, marking down all the adjoining corridors and any surveillance he might see, but he just can't muster the attention and energy. He's tired and everything still feels so weird that all his concentration is diverted.

 

He places one foot ahead of the other. Ahead of the other. Ahead of the other.

 

In what seems like no time at all, he's standing in front of the door to his room. It swings inward, just narrowly missing Sans who's laying on the floor.

 

“Paps!” Sans scrambles up faster than he's ever seen him move without magic. Sans grabs him and pulls him into the room away from the guards, away from the door which closes behind.

 

He flinches at the sudden touch; it feels odd, much like he feels odd all over. It's not painful or surprising or anything, but Sans looks concerned anyway.

 

“Sans.” The smile he forces feels inadequate for the stamina he spends on it, but he keeps it up, tries to keep things as normal as he can. He thinks that maybe he's not succeeding.

 

He allows himself to be lead over to a corner, sinks down to the floor after Sans and curls up.

 

“Paps.”

 

He's so tired.

 

“Paps.” Sans jostles his shoulder.

 

He grunts into his elbow. Why can't Sans leave him be? He's tired right now.

 

“Hey! Paps!” Sans lifts up his arm and he's treated to a close up of Sans' eye socket and nasal cavity.

 

“What?” He hopes that, whatever it is, it's fast.

 

“Are you alright? It's just-you don't seem your usual energetic self.”

 

“I'm tired, Sans.”

 

“And usually you don't sleep. At all.”

 

“I'm trying something new.”

 

Why all the questions? Does Sans _want_ him to feel unwell? There's a pause and he hopes Sans has stopped. He really just wants to be left alone to sleep, but then:

 

“...And your battle body is gone.”

 

Unbidden, frustration rushes though him, temporarily energizing him. “So. What.” His tone is sharp with unwarranted irritation, but the guilt he'd normally feel is deadened. He straightens and stands up so he's towering over Sans. “ _SO. WHAT,_ ” Papyrus repeats, voice amplified and diction crisp with rage.

 

Sans remains sitting. He leans back slightly so he can meet Papyrus' eyes, but otherwise doesn't move. “You never take it off.”

 

Sans is so calm, so poised sitting there while Papyrus feels like he's out of control. For the first time in his life, he wants to destroy – wants to rip that countenance to shreds; wants to hurt another. He hates.

 

“AND WHAT DOES IT MATTER TO YOU? THEY'RE JUST CLOTHES,” Papyrus says, dismissively.

 

Sans stays still, his posture don't change. But his eye-lights shrink, and Papyrus feels a vicious thrill at his pain, feels in control and powerful.

 

“JUST. CLOTHES,” Papyrus repeats. He wants to really drive the point home. “WHY SHOULD IT MATTER TO YOU? OR BETTER YET, TO _ME?_ ”

 

Finally, Sans moves, shrinks into himself. “Because...” he trails off.

 

“BECAUSE WHAT?” Papyrus presses his advantage, pushes at Sans' weakness.

 

Sans averts his eyes. Then, his face scrunches and he looks away entirely. “Heh, you're right bro.” Sans closes his eyes face evening out into a grin. “They're not-I guess they're just clothes. Nothing else really to them.”

 

Papyrus nods, triumphant. “FINALLY! GLAD YOU CAME TO YOUR SENSES, BROTHER.” He lies down on the floor and curls into Sans. His brother's body is stiff and vaguely uncomfortable.

 

Sans sighs. “Yeah. I'm glad, too.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: DENIAL

_Day 13_ :

 

Sans doesn't ask about Papyrus' meltdown. 

 

They try to carry on as usual even though things are about as far from normal as they can get. There's no breakfast, but there is their usual easy banter, and if their reactions are off – laughter a little too loud, gestures a little too exaggerated – well, it's amazing what stress and relief can do.

 

Papyrus doesn't volunteer any information. 

 

They reminisce, pulling out their favorite memories and rehashing them. Puns come fast and thick, and Papyrus splutters and rants in response. Aspirations are revisited, and Sans smiles and nods, offering encouragement where needed. 

 

They both carefully avoid their abduction and imprisonment. Papyrus doesn't ask what Sans is doing, and Sans doesn't ask Papyrus what's going on with him. It's too much, they feel too fragile. It's easier to retreat behind typical behaviors, a pantomime of themselves that cracks only when Sans is taken away.

 

“I love you,” Sans whispers, clutching Papyrus close. “You don't have to love me, just know that I love you.” 

 

Impatient, the guard manhandles Sans, forcibly prying his fingers loose and dragging him to the door.

 

Sans yells, “Please, please just know that,” before the door closes behind him.

 

~*~

 

Papyrus is summoned, how many hours later he doesn't know. Like before, he's escorted through the halls, and like before he's unable to concentrate. 

 

He worries. Was Sans being punished for something Papyrus had done or not done? An image of Sans beaten and bloody comes to mind, hunched over, a shaking hand pressed against a large red gash in his chest. 

 

Papyrus shakes his head. No. That couldn't have happened. It wouldn't happen. He'd make sure of it. Distantly, he hears maniacal laughter in a two-toned voice. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post this here. Sorry!!
> 
> warnings: VOMITING/EMETOPHILIA; DEEP-THROATING/FACE FUCKING; DISSOCIATION; RAPE
> 
> been thinking about a change in pov for the next bit just to really highlight a change in memory and processing for a (series of) traumatic event(s). and the pov change would be smoother if there was a break.

_Day 13:_

 

Papyrus is shown to another room.

 

Barring the examination area and the infirmary, it’s larger than any of the other rooms he’s seen. It’s filled with humans laughing and horsing around, yet there’s an air of expectation, as though they are waiting for something, a sort of frantic impatience underlying their interactions.

 

The men closest to the door notice his arrival first. They nudge each other, pointing and grinning knowingly. And when the door swings shut with a resounding bang, Papyrus finds himself at the center of attention.

 

He’s motioned further into the room and Papyrus follows, moves away from the door, eddying reluctance in every step, to the center of the room until he’s surrounded on all sides.

 

The humans are naked while Papyrus is clothed, but what should offer a sense of control, of dominance, makes him instead feel wary and uncomfortable, off-kilter. He has an inkling of what’s coming. The real question is how, to which he spares a thought and immediately wishes he hadn’t; the idea that there are so many, that they’ll be watching each liaison, watching and waiting for their turn, is horrifying.

 

“Huh, it really is a skeleton. I thought Richards was lying.”

 

“I keep patella-ing you!”

 

“How the fuck are we gonna fuck that?!”

 

“I don’t want sloppy seconds.”

 

“You’re free to leave then.”

 

“Hell no!”

 

“Wonder if that means we can see everything inside. You know. Organs and shit.”

 

Papyrus cringes, feeling much like a stud on auction. He’s expecting the touches, light and exploratory, rough and entitled, but they still manage to come as a shock, as though he can’t really believe that he can be thought of as sub-human.

 

“Boning a skeleton? Guess that makes this the bone zone!”

 

The puns remind him of Sans, and he feels sick. He doesn’t want to be reminded of his brother in this situation. Doesn’t want reminders of his previous life at all. Doesn’t want to see the stark contrast, his safe haven violated by being brought to mind in this scenario.

 

A pair of hands grip his shoulders from behind, pushes, and, pressed in, Papyrus has nowhere to go but down. He sinks to his knees in the middle of the circle. From this vantage point, he’s eye-level with their privates. Unlike yesterday, there’s no hope, no illusion of a reasonable alternative; his reality is as naked as the humans around him. Flushed and resigned, Papyrus remembers Sans’ pleas from earlier, and when there’s a nudge at his jaw he opens obediently.

 

The human’s length slides against his tongue, filling his mouth. He gags, a series of wet coughs and spasms. Tries to keep his jaws open even as his arms instinctively try to push the human away. The human fills his mouth, pushing down his throat, only stopping when its hips are resting against his cheekbones.

 

Papyrus is deaf and blind with panic, suffocating and choking, trying desperately to remaster control over his body. He heaves – glottis closing, larynx rising, soft palate elevating – and he turns, tries to wrench his head back and to the side. Hands hold him in place, a pair on either side of his head, one on his neck pushing him further down, down, down as waves of nausea roll over him.

 

Vomit rises, hot and acidic. Floods his throat, burning the sensitive tissues of his throat and nose, leaking around the penis and spilling out of his mouth, out of his nasal cavity. Finally, long after the battle with his stomach has been fought and lost, the human pulls out, trailing ropes of spit, mucus and bile. The sudden removal causes more retching. His entire front is stained a sickly orange, and it gloops down his face, to drip and pool on the floor underneath him.

 

He looks up. The humans sneer and smirk down at him. He can see their mouths moving, can see them talking, their tone jeering, but he can’t seem to make out any words through the haze of exhaustion. Pliant, he allows himself to be manhandled, allows them to strip him and maneuver his body to their demands.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: Gang-rape; Dissociation
> 
> I’m pretty sure I went too psych on this…I’ve tried to edit most of the psychology stuff out, but idk…maybe it’s still unreadable.

_Day 13:_

 

Overhead, the lights are constant and unwavering, the buzz like the susurration of the surf, a constant flow of current.

 

Papyrus lies limp. Between the stress and the choking and the vomiting, he’s exhausted. It’s easier to just lie back and let the humans do what they want; they would regardless, of that he is sure. He stares straight ahead, stares upward past the humans at the ceiling, at the lights. Let's his eyes unfocus and tries carefully to think of nothing.

 

The humans maneuver him into a kneeling position and he goes complacently. Hands rest on his shoulders, his neck, his head. His clothes are removed, and the humans poke their hands into his ribcage, stroke and prod, scratch and pull at his bones and the spaces in between, trying to push their hands through sideways by slotting them between his ribs and pushing towards his sternum as far as they can go. At that he cries out, ribs bending to accommodate the hands, the intercostal space widening past its natural limits. They don't break, but his flexibility is at its max.

 

Other humans seem more interested in his pelvis. Fingers dip into his obturator foramina, nails scratching as the humans try to force three fingers inside an area only large enough for two or less. Two hands explore his pelvic cavity distally, one from either side of his spine. He moans when knuckles brush against his sensitive insides, that little oblong coil of magic made tangible, the prior conjuration of his genitals.

 

“What the-?” the human doesn't expect to feel anything inside there, flinches away before gingerly prodding it.

 

He lets out a needy cry.

 

The human grabs, gropes, feels the shape with its hand and squeezes lightly. The sensation shoots straight to his soul, input and output like a feedback loop circulating like a great undersea current, out of sight and unseen until rendering valleys and clefts and other assorted topographical features visible by imperceptible yet momentous movement.

 

The world shifts on its axis.

 

He hears, dimly, exclamations of surprise and answering catcalls:

 

“Is it a boy or a girl? What gives here?!”

 

“It's a skeleton. Who cares?”

 

“I'm just saying it's kinda gay.”

 

“What.”

 

“Half, yanno? One dick, one cunt - half gay.”

 

“Don't be a fucking retard. That only applies to people. Ya gonna have a go or not?”

 

“Well, if it's not gay…”

 

_“Ha ha ha...where's your dignity now?”_

 

but what catches his attention – what he really notices – is hands toying with his vagina and his erection. Both manifestations of intense pleasure, manifestations he hadn't consciously conjured.

 

Hands reach out to explore and claim. His vagina is stretched to its limits and then widened as one hand works first one finger inside, then another and, after prying open his labia to widen the entrance, another. Progressively, he's pulled open, all luxurious pleasure like the stretch of the body after a long period of stillness.

 

He struggles, panic and pain lancing through the pleasure, as another human joins in, trying to squeeze its finger between the ones already inside. Fingers spread, roughly pushing his hole wider for second hand. He has to be held down, to be held in place to enable their exploration. He opens his mouth, to cry or scream, he isn't sure which, and the humans seize the opportunity.

 

A phallus pushes inside and he can't help but gag, body remembering, gag reflex already primed. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes as the human thrusts. And just as when the cramps and the spasms become too much, the human pulls out. Rubs against his face, leaving a slimy trail of saliva and precome over his jaws and cheekbones before re-entering and resuming. The other humans aren't inactive. Two make use of his hands, grabbing and curling them around their erections, moving them back and forth over their flesh.

 

There's some commotion behind him – but what does it matter it's so hard to think through the muddied waters of consciousness – and then electricity jolts through him as fingers relentlessly thrust into him; as a hand again grasps that little bundle of magic.

 

The light seems to wave, curling about him oddly.

 

There's too much going on, too many demands on his body; the usual awareness – proprioceptive sensation – of the outside pulls inwards so that all that is narrows to a passive reception of feeling, touched not touching, and limited to his self. His self, a blank slate of pure feeling with little ability for interpretation, for appraisal, for grouping into relevant fields, all gone. A passive vehicle of reaction.

 

Awareness narrows, strengthens, fades.

 

Thick, brackish liquid floods over his tongue, and he swallows, gasps, lightheaded with sudden oxygen. It makes everything feel sharper, fresher. Throws into relief the fingers inside him tugging at the sides of his hole and hitting haphazardly the sensitive spot inside and to the front. A hand rubs idly against the glans of this erection, wetting the head with his fluids. Warmth hits the side of his face, his torso.

 

Broken moaning, a desperate animal noise punctuating the all-encompassing buzzing, like his skull has been scooped out and filled with pleasure. When was the last time he felt so good? Has he ever felt this good before?

 

He aches, he needs more. Needs something inside of him, and on and around him.

 

A touch to the side of his mouth has him opening blindly, obediently. It rubs against his tongue, makes short thrusts. It feels good, a warm weight in his mouth, that doesn't threaten choking. He suckles at it, a calming action, and is rewarded with light petting to the top of his skull, gentle caresses.

 

When the first human sinks into him, he feels satiated, like the yawning chasm inside has been filled. From both ends, he's pushed back and pulled forward, a relentless tidal movement from which he's helpless to escape, from which he doesn't want to escape. He flows with the current, rocks into the waves, undulating between the two humans as best he can. And when they finish, others take their place, setting up a different rhythm, perhaps using a different position, but bringing the same pleasure.

 

Time has no meaning. He measures it in orgasms, his own and the humans', until he can no longer keep count. He feels sore and sticky, exhausted but still aroused; feels like a live wire waiting to be discharged, magic thrumming through him like a rapid-fire pulse. And as the last man ejaculates on his face, some dripping down into his eye sockets, he needs.

 

He spreads his legs, reaching down to play with himself, shoving three fingers inside his cunt, one hand gripping his cock. Come leaks down, frothing around and between his fingers as he bounces on his hand, thrusts through the tight ring of his curled fist.

 

“Please, more.”

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: self-shame as a part of after-effects of rape; Sans pov (a little)
> 
> ....I think....we're getting somewhere. *knocks on wood*

Day 14:

 

He drags his feet, exhausted, and he has to practically be carried back to his cell, he’s leaning so much of his weight on his guards - his captors, let’s be frank here - and he finds vindictive satisfaction in any and all inconvenience he can contrive to create.

 

Only the thought of his brother buoys him from helplessness, lifts him from the crushing return of his depression. If Papyrus survive, can smile and laugh and live all of this will be worth anything Sans can give: his happiness, his morals, his life.

 

~*~

 

Sticky, sore and tired, Papyrus has never felt better. He feels rung-out and thoroughly used, like he’d just finished training. And he feels so amazing: euphoric and light and just bursting with feel-good feelings; like athletes’ high only much, much better.

 

Dazed and smiling, he stumbles into the shower stall and fumbles with the knobs. The pounding hot water feels heavenly and the act of washing itself, the friction of the wash cloth and the creaminess of the lather, takes on an unknown sensuality.

 

He hardly even realizes when he starts rubbing himself, free hand sliding between the folds of his pussy, slicking back and forth, grazing his clit before slipping in. There’s a slight pain, a dull ache of over-used muscles with the slight penetration; his inner walls feel hot and sensitive, and he imagines how swollen and tender his used flesh must look. His finger slips inside smoothly, aided by how wet he is; he’s drenched down there, and he imagine his finger brushing against the sides of his hole, his own fluids and the come of the humans collecting and coating his finger as he fucks the mixture further into himself.

 

Some drips down onto his bottom knuckles and palm before it’s washed away in the steady stream of water so that what started as an achy but effortless glide gains friction with each thrust until he’s roughly jamming his finger in and out, body gripping so tightly to his finger that he can feel every wrinkle and ridge; tightens until he feels like his body is so hungry, so empty that it will never let go.

  
  
His cock bobs above, largely ignored but for his hand gripping his base, cutting off the flow of magic and turning the head and shaft a dark orange. He’s masturbated before, always with his dick, never with his pussy and certainly never both at the same time, and before the gangbang he’d never experienced such large, body-encompassing orgasms; never been so filled with pleasure that his mind whited out and all he could think of is more. It’s this sensation that he chases, that he desperately wants to experience again.

 

He speeds up, crooking his finger so it prods incessantly at that sensitive spot inside. With each pass, pain and pleasurable pressure cause his legs to shake, and he slumps against the wall of the shower and supports himself with his shoulder. He squeezes his cock in an attempt to stave off his orgasm, the pain an exquisite counterpoint to the pleasure that further drives him to the edge. And when he releases his grip, his cock tingles with returning magic, sensitivity heightened so that each droplet of water falling on the head stings like a slap and his body pulses along to his orgasm.

 

He basks in the euphoria, content to stand under the pounding water until it turns cold, then towels off and steps out. Two guards wait for him, smirking knowingly. Sans sits on one of the benches, looking flushed and embarrassed.

 

At the sight of his brother, red hot mortification shoots through Papyrus, dissipating the earlier euphoria and sense of well-being, replacing it with shame and self-loathing.

 

“Uh, hello Sans.” His greeting sounds stilted and forced to his own ears, but the normality of it seems to ease some of Sans’ embarrassment.

 

“Hey, Paps.”

 

“Excuse me.” He gestures towards the pile of clothes on the other end of the bench.

 

“Sure.”

 

As Papyrus reaches for past Sans to grab his clothes, he doesn’t make eye contact. Avoids looking Sans in the face.

 

The ensuing silence feels awkward. Papyrus isn’t sure what type of expression is on his own face, and he doesn’t know what Sans is thinking. He hopes it’s not “How disgusting. Looks like my bro just masturbated to memories of his own rape” because if there was ever a secret Papyrus wanted to keep it was that one, closely followed by the fact that he orgasmed from being raped and then that he was raped.

 

_But could it really be rape if he consented to it?_

 

Not speaking allows Papyrus to keep his secrets, to hold the rest of his cards close. And if it’s true that Sans has his own secrets, Papyrus can understand why: there’s something empowering about having a little something to yourself. But it also leaves Papyrus to stew, to worry about his secrets in silence with no one to help ease the burden.

 

Everything sounds loud in the silence and Papyrus tries to focus his attention on getting dressed, on his clothes - an ill-fitting one-piece jumpsuit - but he inevitably finds himself zeroing in on his surroundings, worry edging softly into paranoia. In the background, the guards are having a quiet conversation, and suddenly, disturbingly, he can’t help but wonder if those guards were there.

 

Eavesdropping, he catches his name and a few badly muffled giggles, and panics.

 

Carefully not looking at Sans, Papyrus asks, “Sans, how’ve you been?” loudly, trying to drown out the guards’ conversation.

 

“Uh, been better. **Bone** tired,” Sans says after a moment.

 

“What were you doing?” It’s an innocent question, one he’d asked countless times before in everyday chitchat, and so Papyrus is unprepared when Sans grabs his wrist and turns him around.

 

Papyrus yanks his arm free, nearly unseating Sans, and as he turns around he can see shock, worry, and hurt in Sans’ expression. The sudden movement draws the attention of the guards who stare with interest, hands placed on various weapons.

 

“I-you just seem out of it, and I guess I’m worried.” Sans looks down, staring at his upturned palms.

 

“I’m fine.” How he wanted that lie to be true. Papyrus looks down too, eager for a distraction. Watches as Sans fidgets with the cuffs of his lab coat.

 

Where there used to be an easy flow of communication is a barrier, and Papyrus can’t help but feel it’s his fault.

 

~*~

 

It’s his own fault, Sans muses, guilt eating at him as he watches Papyrus finish dressing in silence.

 

Lying and half-truths. They should be second-nature by now. They had been second-nature. Back in the Underground, back in their old life. A life he’d left, they’d both left, after the barrier fell, after integration into human society.

 

But no matter how much he’d lied, fibbed and bluffed before, nothing could’ve prepared him for the enormity of this falsehood, for trying to con the conman. Sans bullshits on a daily basis; he’s too much of a wise guy to eat that shit and call it chocolate.

 

_It’s alright. If not you, then surely they’d get someone else, someone not as worried for the well-being of others._

 

_Denial, rationalization. Convenient lies._

 

_It’s for Papyrus._

 

_…the damning truth. Sacrificing others for the sake of one._

 

He’s never felt so immoral.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: Sans POV and Papyrus POV; sfw. Weirdness with tenses.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, everyone!

The sun beats down, baking the earth. After the dark confines of the compound, its intensity is blinding, and Papyrus and Sans have to spend minutes adjusting to the light. To Sans, it feels like their first afternoon of freedom all over again.

 

It’s like the first time they saw the sun at noon.

 

Sans pulls up his hood and slumps down. By contrast, Papyrus strips, bones flashing white, painful to the sight.

 

“It feels so good to be outside!” Papyrus stretches, joints cracking, then flops onto the sand.

 

“Still fenced in though.” Sans nods towards the barbed-wire fence, just visible in the distance as a glinting band.

 

“Hmm,” Papyrus grunts from the ground, more of a cursory acknowledgement than an expression of interest. “How long do you think it'd take to bleach my bones? I want to be really white.”

 

Sans stares. “Uh, dunno,” he says eventually.

 

“Hmm,” says Papyrus again.

 

Sans stands awkwardly as Papyrus sunbathes. Of all the responses he'd been expecting, complete disinterest hadn't even made the bottom three. Papyrus who's been invested in the wellbeing of Sans’ paperweight. Papyrus who once intently watched paint dry to make sure the walls of their new home dried evenly. His younger brother is generally interested in anything to do with the two of them. So Papyrus’ lack of interest in their captivity is...uncanny to say the least, but closer to extremely disturbing.

 

Sans shuffles in place, torn between the urge to plan for escape and the need to stay near Papyrus. They're brothers after all! They should stick together! But since this whole debacle started, it feels like they've been drifting apart rather than coming closer. It's worrisome and Sans blames himself. He reasons that, with only the two of them for company - for distraction- it's only natural for Papyrus to take more of an interest in Sans’ behavior, only natural for him to notice the hedging and lies of omission. Maybe it's time to come clean.

 

The first thought, automatic, a parentified older sibling mental reflex is: This silence is for Papyrus’ own good. Thought two justifies it: Sure it's hurting, but it’d hurt Paps more if he knew; he can't think in greys, and this is all grey. Thought three comes unbidden: And it's better for him to feel alone in this hellhole? To hell with that! And to hell with your plan!

 

Sans sits heavily onto the sand.

 

Papyrus looks up, and whatever he sees on Sans’ face must worry him. “Are you alright?”

 

Sans takes a deep breath and opens his mouth-

 

A fourth thought, a grotesque thing, pops into Sans’ consciousness. Oh sure, rush to tell him the truth. Because hatred isn't divisive. And there's so much to hate, isn't there?

 

Sans’ mind reels. “I-”

 

“Sans?” Papyrus sounds alarmed, and it's terribly, shamefully reassuring. Papyrus’ presence hovers around him, not touching but there. A comfort nonetheless.

 

“I-”

 

“Hey, Papyrus! Looking good! You busy?” A human jogs confidently towards them. And like that, Sans surging confidence ebbs. To be honest, It's something of a relief to be interrupted, and Sans lets himself sag. Fine - almost unnoticeable - tremors shake his body as the adrenaline withdraws.

 

“Ye-es,” Papyrus says, slowly. “But Sans-”

 

“Great,” says the human, speaking over Papyrus, “because I wanted to invite you out to go shopping.” The human bustles about, attracting Papyrus’ attention and trying to usher him away, one arm around his shoulders.

 

When did they Papyrus get so chummy with a human? Nonplussed and thoughts spinning, Sans watches their interactions. It’ll be good for Papyrus to have a friend here. Maybe it’ll make things easier - give them some leeway, some extra rights. Might make escape easier. But underneath it all, unvoiced and quickly suppressed, Sans feels guilty. Just how unavailable and unobservant has he been to miss this? He should have _noticed_.

 

“Well…” Papyrus sounds tempted, but even as he goes with the human, he looks back at Sans, expectant.

 

Sans shrugs in response. “I'm tired,” he states simply. And worried and feeling guilty.

 

Papyrus tuts in disapproval. “You never change. Try not to bake out here.”

 

“Heh, you got it bro. I'll just be here, waiting for the Sandman,” says Sans as Papyrus walks away. Then he flops to the ground and, after a minute, begins snoring loudly.

 

Minutes pass. When he can't hear the two anymore and he’s certain he’s no longer attracting attention, he pretends to wake up, slapping sand out of his nasal cavity and furtively casting about for guards. When he's sure he's not being watched, he starts to wander nonchalantly towards the fence.

 

Why were they allowed out in true first place? Sans doesn't know, and while he cares, he doesn't care much. This is a lucky break, and, really, if the humans didn't want their captives investigating the area, they should've put something interesting in the yard.

 

Sans makes like he's just on a walk and strolls, whistling under his breath.

 

~*~

 

Shrugging on his clothes, Papyrus follows, a little uneasily. He's grateful for the barrier of cloth. It isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing.

 

Idly, he wishes Sans had come along, but if he wanted to sleep there was nothing Papyrus could do.

 

Well, that was partly a lie. There are plenty of things he could have done, not least of which was nagging. But a part of him didn’t want Sans around in case of - just in case. And another part of him was vindictively happy to leave Sans alone with his little crisis, even if a part of him wants to go back and check on Sans.

 

Papyrus peers sideways at the human. The human meets his gaze and grins.

 

“I'm glad you came with me,” it says, grin gentling to a soft smile. “I was hoping you'd say you'd spend time with me You look like you could use a friend.”

 

Something in Papyrus warms and, his company sought out and an offer of friendship extended, he feels wanted, feels flattered. Aside from Sans (who, as Papyrus’ brother, doesn't really count), Undyne (lately wrapped up in Alphys with little time for others), Frisk (busy as human ambassador) and Flowey (only sporadically available), he's not really overflowing with friends, not Mr. Popular by any means. And this sudden interest in him? It feels good.

 

“I'd like that, to be friends,” he says, returning the smile. He picks at his sleeves. “And to be honest, I'm really look forward to getting something other than this jumpsuit.”

 

The human laughs. “Understandable. Still, you have such great bone structure  _ anything  _ would look good on you.”

 

Pride swells. “Yes, I am very handsome. Thank you.”

 

“Just calling it the way I'm seeing it.”

 

They walk further into the base. Humans stop and stare as they pass, but aside from the looks and indistinct whispers nothing much happens. Still, Papyrus finds himself grateful for the company.

 

Low buildings of beige concrete, identical but for signs drilled into the walls, squat in neat rows. No landmarks and no street signs; it's difficult to keep track of direction. 

 

The further in they go the busier the streets become. There's less staring and more bustling, and Papyrus has to sidestep a particularly distracted human.

 

And then abruptly the street ends and a building begins.

 

The building looks to have started out as a run of the mill structure, short and made of the same beige concrete as the others. But somewhere along the line it acquired a few extensions and a second floor. There is even a wooden overhang from which dangled the sign ‘The Exchange’ in large black letters. There were curlicues on it.

 

Stepping through the automatic doors, it became clear that the place is a hive of activity.

 

Food, clothing, leisure commodities, the Exchange had it all, although the most popular items seem to be beer and cigarettes. Papyrus is lead over to the clothing section, a small selection of mainly mens’ apparel, with a few items of womens’ clothing half-hidden.

 

“Pick whatever you’d like. It’s a little small at the moment,” there’s a note of apology in the human’s voice, “but if you’d like anything else there’s a catalogue.”

 

It doesn’t take long to go through the racks. By the time he’s finished, he has a shirt and a pair of shorts. The human stands in the aisle, waiting, and he smiles again as Papyrus makes his way over.

 

“Have you tried them on?” it asks.

 

Papyrus looks around. “There's a dressing room?”

 

It laughs. “Well, no. But we're all guys here, right? I'll just turn around, yeah?”

 

The human turns around and Papyrus stands, clutching the clothes to his chest. It would be nice to try them on; he's found in the past that human clothing sizes don't translate well to skeleton sizes, and many a time he had bought the smallest size only to realize at home that they were too ill-fitting. But still, to change in the middle of a store?

 

Papyrus scans the area. This part of the store is empty, most humans flocking to the food aisles, and his new human friend is turned away, staring up at the ceiling.

 

Quickly, before he loses his nerve, he ducks behind a sales rack, unzips the jumpsuit and changes. The human jumps slightly when Papyrus taps him on the shoulder.

 

“That was fast!” says his friend as it turns around. It looks Papyrus up and down, “And you look great!”

 

“It's not too baggy?” Papyrus asks anxiously.

 

“Not at all,” responds the human. “You look hot!” And as a punctuation, it slaps his ass. Papyrus jumps forward with a yelp.

 

“I still think I'd like to see for myself,” Papyrus says primly, smoothing his shirt down.

 

“What. Don't trust me?”

 

It’s said jovially, jokingly. And looking up, there's still a smile on the human's face. But there’s something - about the delivery or the tone or the smile - that makes it sound threatening.

 

“No. I mean yes. I mean! I trust you,” Papyrus stammers.

 

“That’s good.” The smile doesn’t waver. “Friends should trust each other, yeah?” An arm goes around his shoulders, steering him towards the front of the store.

 

Papyrus tenses under the arm. “Y-es.”

 

“Glad to hear it!” The dark aura vanishes and the human beams. Had he imagined it?

 

He must have, Papyrus figures as he watches the human pay for his new outfit. His new friend has been nothing but courteous. Or maybe, Papyrus realized, his new friend is just a little awkward. So what if what it’d said had come off as odd? He’s in no position to judge; Papyrus had been told plenty of times that sometimes his words and tone were off, or that what he’d said had been a little inappropriate.

 

Yes. That must be it.

 

~*~

 

Sans is exactly where they’d left him, snoozing on the sand. As Papyrus stands over him, he opens one eye lazily. His other eye opens in surprise as he takes in Papyrus’ new clothes: a short-sleeve plaid button-up tied to expose his midriff and a pair of daisy dukes. Surprise  _ and  _ anger as he’s reminded of his brother’s battle body.  How dare the humans take it from him.

 

“Nice threads,” he says slowly. “Where’d you get them?”

 

“They are a gift from my new friend!” came the cheerful reply.

 

Sans’ mind flashes back to the pushy human Papyrus had left with. “Oh?  That new friend have a name?”

 

Papyrus pauses. “You know, I forgot to ask?”

 

Sans huffs, a short expellation of laughter. That’s just like Papyrus, who’d went almost two days after meeting Frisk before asking for their name. It feels comfortable, like they’ve settled back into their old patterns.

 

“Anyway, what were you going to tell me before?”

 

Like a stone, Papyrus’ words smashes the easy illusion and settles, a hard weight in Sans’ stomach as reality crashes down.

 

“Nothing much,” Sans says, standing up slowly and shaking the sand out of his hoodie. He straightens and meets Papyrus’ gaze. “Just, you know, wanting to plan our escape. There’s nothing exploitable out here anyway.”

 

A complicated jumble of emotions passes over Papyrus’ face, too fast to identify. It ends in long-suffering disapproval. “Sans, even I could tell you that that was a fool’s errand! You shouldn’t do such needlessly reckless things!”

 

Sans shrugs. “Didn’t Gobi-yond my limits. I’m fine.”

 

“Oh my god was that a pun?”

  
They chat easily, interacting like they always have. But it feels hollow. Almost like defeat. 


End file.
